


so i bet all i have on that furrowed brow

by knoxoursavior



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bearded Victor Nikiforov, Blow Jobs, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 20:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17168477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: “Yuuri, darling,” he says. “Why on earth don’t you want me to get a haircut?”





	so i bet all i have on that furrowed brow

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the first prompt for day 4 of [vitya week 2018](https://vityaweek.tumblr.com/post/180732092684/vitya-week-2018) which is Hairstyle!
> 
> thank u to [obsessivelyintrigued](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivelyintrigued/pseuds/obsessivelyintrigued) who helped turn this from a wholesome & fluffy fic to an excuse for porn lmao ilu sis

Victor hasn’t had long hair in years.

Well. His hair now isn’t as long as it was before, when he was still in Juniors, but it’s still weird, having hair that falls just past his shoulders when he’s had it short for almost a decade. He’s always worked to maintain it, always went to his hairdresser at least every other month until recently, until he got busy with coaching and planning the wedding and choreographing for other skaters and he barely had time to spare for himself.

He doesn’t really mind the long hair. It was annoying while it was growing, but ever since it reached the point where he could tie it up into a neat little ponytail, Victor hasn’t minded it as much. His bangs, though, are barely bangs anymore, fall all the way to the line of his jaw instead of draping artfully over his eyes like he prefers. Added to the full beard Victor barely has time to groom, it makes him look  _ horrible _ , makes him look unkempt and unprofessional, nothing like a coach should.

But it’s fine. Victor is more scared of taking a pair of scissors and cutting his hair himself because he doesn’t want to ruin it. Yuuri’s offered to cut it for him, but Victor’s seen pictures of Yuuri when he was a kid, smiling brightly even though his hair came down around his forehead like there was a shiny black bowl on his head. Victor loves Yuuri, will love Yuuri until the day he dies, but he doesn’t want to risk their engagement for his  _ hair. _

So Victor schedules a meeting with his hairdresser. It takes them three whole months just to set a date, because Victor’s schedule is unforgiving, always changing because of extra practice, extra work to do, extra time he has to set aside to talk to Yuuri’s parents about the wedding plans. It’s alright though. It’s just in time for the prenup photoshoot he and Yuuri are having next week, and that’s all Victor can ask for.

He’s in the middle of telling Yuuri about his plans, in the middle of suggesting that maybe Yuuri can take over as Yurio’s coach tomorrow afternoon while he’s out at the hairdresser’s, when he notices that Yuuri has gone silent.

Yuuri’s lips are pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed just so, his hands clenching around the fabric of their shared blanket. Victor’s words fade to nothing at the sight of him. He puts down his pen, closes up his worn, well-used planner, and sets his foldable table down on the floor beside the bed.

“What’s wrong, Yuuri?” he asks. He takes Yuuri’s clenched hands in his, feels relief blossom in his chest when Yuuri doesn’t pull away, when he actually lets Victor pry his fists open, when Yuuri is the one who moves to interlace their fingers together.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, and Victor nods, waits. But Yuuri closes his mouth after a few beats, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens.

Victor wants to kiss the frown off Yuuri’s face, but he doesn’t. Instead, he presses, “What is it, my love?”

He sees the way Yuuri’s throat works, the way Yuuri’s cheeks flush, the way Yuuri’s eyelashes flutter as he blinks excessively in that way of his when all he really wants to do is to look away, to avoid eye contact.

Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hands in his.

“I don’t want you to get a haircut,” Yuuri says, and—

_ What? _

“What?” Victor says, and there’s no helping how dumbfounded he sounds, how his eyes narrow and his mouth twists because he was expecting—

Well. Victor was expecting something about the wedding, or about his routine, or about Worlds. His  _ hair, _ though? Feels like an absolute curveball.

“I don’t want you to go and get a haircut tomorrow,” Yuuri repeats, as if he thinks hearing it again would help. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s really cute how Yuuri’s lower lip is jutting out just a little bit, how his cheeks are dusted pink and his palms are starting to get a little sweaty.

Still. Victor doesn’t really know what to make of this situation.

“Yuuri, darling,” he says. “Why on earth don’t you want me to get a haircut?”

Yuuri’s cheeks darken into a deep red, the same red flush he’d get when he’s deep inside Victor, or when Victor is eating him out, or when he has Victor pressed against the wall of their shower. Victor  _ really _ doesn’t know what to make of this situation.

Yuuri mumbles something under his breath, but it’s too low, too unintelligible for Victor to understand.

“Yuuri, I can’t hear you, my darling,” he says, and he leans into Yuuri’s space, close enough that Yuuri’s eyes widen and his breath audibly catches.

Yuuri’s hands tighten around his, and then—

“Your hair makes you look hot!” Yuuri says, and  _ now _ , only now does he bow his head and hide his face in the crook of Victor’s neck. There’s a noise coming from him, a high-pitched squeak Victor has only ever heard three precious times in his life: when Yuuri was introduced at his high school reunion as an Olympic gold medalist, when Yuuri tore his pants right before a huge TV interview after winning said Olympic gold medal, and most dear, perhaps, is the time when Yuuri realized, in the middle of the night when he was sleeping next to Victor in Victor’s bed in Victor’s apartment, that everyone else wasn’t just imagining that the matching gold around their fingers were engagement rings.

And now, it’s back because Yuuri is flustered about Victor’s  _ hair _ . Which he’s been worrying about for  _ months _ . Which he thought made him look like garbage on his best days. 

Victor loves Yuuri  _ so much _ .

“What about my beard, Yuuri? Does it make me look hot too?” Victor says, and it’s hard to keep his delight from his voice, hard to keep the warmth blooming in his chest down to a manageable simmer.

Yuuri groans, presses further into Victor’s neck, and now there’s nothing Victor can do about the laugh that escapes from his lips. He wraps an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, holds him even closer.

“You don’t have to answer,” Victor says. “I’ll just assume it’s a yes.”

Yuuri whines, pushes gently at Victor’s chest, so Victor lets him pull away a little bit, just enough that Yuuri can look up at him with his narrowed eyes and his flushed cheeks and the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. He’s been doing that more and more often these days; he must have learned it from Yurio.

There’s nothing Victor can do about Yurio, can only stick his tongue out too when he’s feeling petty, roll his eyes when he’s trying to be mature. With Yuuri though, it’s as simple as closing the distance between them and capturing his lips in a kiss.

Immediately, Yuuri melts into him, parts his lips in a yielding, open kiss. He must not be too annoyed at Victor for teasing him, which is good, because Victor has much more planned for tonight.

He snakes a hand under Yuuri’s shirt, splays his hand across the plane of Yuuri’s stomach, flat and defined like it always is during competition season. His other hand slips under Yuuri’s jaw, his touch gentle, revering, because to be able to hold Yuuri close for a kiss is a privilege that, even after three years of being with him, Victor still feels so,  _ so _ lucky to have.

Yuuri tastes like the toothpaste sitting next to their toothbrushes in the bathroom, tastes a little bit like the lemon water they always keep a glass of on their bedside tables at night, tastes like an amalgamation of  _ Yuuri-and-Victor.  _ It’s so  _ satisfying _ , somehow, knowing that Yuuri also smells like the fabric softener they use for their laundry, like the cologne Victor gave him for his birthday last year along with the gift cards for their local grocery store that Yuuri actually wanted, like the lavender-scented linen spray Chris gave them along with an entire set of essential oils Yuuri and Victor have used for massages more than they’d like to admit.

Yuuri and Victor have almost entirely assimilated themselves into each other’s lives, and Victor has never felt so full, so happy, so  _ content _ . And it’s Yuuri who makes him happy, who put a ring on his finger and helped him find himself again, who keeps surprising Victor even now.

So Victor makes sure Yuuri knows exactly how much he appreciates, loves, adores him. Victor lets him know with every sweet word he whispers into Yuuri’s skin, every kiss that he presses into Yuuri’s lips, his neck, his chest, every gentle touch as he grazes his fingers against Yuuri’s nipples, his side, down the line of his hips.

He helps Yuuri out of his shirt, wastes no time and worships the pale expanse of skin that awaits him, presses reverent open-mouthed kisses against what of Yuuri’s skin he can reach. He feels Yuuri’s fingers thread into his hair, feels him _pull_ , and he has to wonder why he never noticed just how much Yuuri starts to shake when he feels Victor’s beard scratching his skin. It takes his breath away, how Yuuri arches into him, how Yuuri’s hand in Victor’s hair keeps him close and how his other hand pushes at Victor’s shoulder, urges him _down, down,_ _down_.

Victor complies. Of course he does.

He licks a stripe down Yuuri’s abdomen, spares a moment to blow his breath onto his cooling spit just so he can see Yuuri shiver. But then he’s nosing at the fabric of Yuuri’s sweatpants, pressing his mouth along the outline of Yuuri’s half-hard cock. But then his hands find the curve of Yuuri’s spine, the small of his back, the waistband of his pants, and soon enough, Victor has them pulled down Yuuri’s legs where the garter band stretches deliciously over Yuuri’s thighs and digs into Yuuri’s skin.

Soon enough, there’s nothing but skin in Victor’s line of sight, nothing but Yuuri and the familiar hard line of his cock. Victor wastes no time, wraps a hand around the Yuuri’s cock and pumps— _ up and down, up and down _ —until it gets even harder under his touch.

Yuuri’s eyes are dark when Victor looks up at him. When he turns his head to press a kiss onto Yuuri’s thigh, to rub his cheek against Yuuri’s skin, he’s rewarded with a moan, with Yuuri’s hips bucking into his hand, with a twinge of pain bordering on pleasure when Yuuri pulls at his hair once again.

“What do you want, my Yuuri?” Victor murmurs. He barely keeps a smile from his lips, barely keeps himself from fluttering his eyelashes up at Yuuri. “My hand? My mouth? My ass?”

He keeps his hand loose around Yuuri’s cock, and he watches Yuuri’s face twist, watches Yuuri’s throat work, watches Yuuri squirm underneath him.

“Anything,” Yuuri says, breathless. “ _ Anything _ , Vitya, please, I just want you.”

Well. Victor has never been able to say no to his Yuuri.

“Alright,” he says. “Then let’s start with my mouth.”

He bows his head, takes Yuuri’s cock into his mouth, little by little until the head hits the back of his throat and he’s at his limit. Yuuri’s thighs bracket Victor’s head, and instead of pushing them away, instead of spreading Yuuri’s legs, he lets them be, lets the insides of Yuuri’s thighs brush against his beard every time he bobs his head down Yuuri’s cock.

The sound of Yuuri’s moans is music to Victor’s ears, just as beautiful as the music Yuuri’s body makes whenever he’s on the ice, skating for the world, for his family, for Victor. Victor coaxes more out of him with a swirl of his tongue around the head of Yuuri’s cock, with a stripe of spit that he licks along the underside of Yuuri’s cock, with a brief, unintentional brush of his beard against Yuuri’s cock when he tries to run his lips across the slick, reddened skin.

Yuuri comes with Victor’s name on his lips, with Victor’s hair threaded between his fingers, with Victor’s mouth wrapped around his cock, and Victor drinks up everything that Yuuri has to give.

Yuuri is sated underneath him, satisfied, but he’s the one who reaches out to Victor, who pulls Victor up until their lips are locked together in a warm, lazy kiss.

And when they pull away, Yuuri tells him, “I love you.”

Victor knows, but still, it makes him smile against Yuuri’s lips.

“I love you too.”

  
  
  


Victor does get a haircut. Only to clean his hair up though.

He comes home to Yuuri’s fingers threading through his hair, now just short of his shoulders, Yuuri’s nails scratching at his neatly trimmed beard, and he knows that he made the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/singeiji) or [tumblr](https://singeiji.tumblr.com)!!!!


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